


Clothes Don't Make the Man

by sordes



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Feelings, M/M, World of Ruin, developing feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sordes/pseuds/sordes
Summary: As Gladio slipped the tunic up and onto his shoulders he realized Cor was watching, arms crossed in front of his chest, his face the picture of pride. Just when Gladio thought all of that vulnerability inside had long been kicked out of him, something inside of him shattered.The one where Gladio reunites with Cor at Hammerhead and they talk of the future. Or, how the boys got their Kingsglaive uniforms.





	Clothes Don't Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [AccursedSpatula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/accursedspatula).
> 
> Somewhat of a prequel to [_Slowed & Chopped_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13562505), but can be taken as its own thing!

One of the earliest memories Gladio had, if it could really be called a memory at all, was the weight of one of the Marshal’s impossibly large hands across his shoulders. He couldn’t have been older than three or four at the time, tiny in comparison to a fully grown adult, naturally, but especially small when compared to the towering Cor. Gladio couldn’t recall any more of the experience, what the circumstances were, what was happening, only that solid warmth on the back of his neck and the weight on his tiny shoulders.

Gladio had marveled at those same hands many times as he got older—how they could be instruments of both sudden violence and shocking delicacy. Gladio had been tossed to the gym mats too many times to count by those hands, had seen them rupture blood vessels and break noses. Hell, Gladio had even seen them tear an imp’s jaw off in Taelpar Crag, a last minute interception that saved Gladio a nasty wound and a premature end to his face off with the Blademaster. But those same hands had also sprayed antiseptic on his scrapes and cuts as a kid, had tended to the gash down the left side of Gladio’s face he’d gotten as a teen. Cor’s hands had been a solid affirmation on Gladio’s shoulders that he was worthy on the day Noct conferred the official title of Sworn Shield onto him.

So seeing Cor’s hands now, looking beyond the white scars and thick knuckles, and noting the age spots and the raised veins, it tugged something in Gladio’s chest. Gladio had never considered Cor’s age, as Cor never really looked, or acted, like someone twenty years his senior. Sure, he was reserved and one of the most mature, dependable people Gladio had ever known, but he never came off as _old_ to him. Cor also never had an issue keeping up with Gladio in the field or in a fight; it was frustrating just how easily he could trounce Gladio even after years of training together. Cor was ‘the Immortal.’ He didn’t age, he didn’t slow down.

But as Gladio’s eyes drifted from Cor’s mottled hands to his slightly stooped back and to the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, he realized there was no denying it. The Immortal was not immune to the flow of time.

Gladio had arrived in Hammerhead a few hours prior by caravan. In-between missions with other intrepid Hunters, Gladio had been overtaken by the sudden urge to make his way east from Lestallum to the garage. When it got real quiet on the ride over, with just the rocking of the truck and the _whishing_ of blurred landmarks flying by, Gladio could’ve sworn he heard some voice whispering to him, calling him back to where this whole life-defining journey really began, but he dismissed the thought that something was instructing him to go, or rather pulling him, to Hammerhead easily. Everyone was going a little batty after ten years of unending darkness after all, and Gladio wasn’t ashamed to admit to feeling a bit nostalgic for a seemingly infinitely simpler time.

Upon his arrival, Gladio was dumbstruck to find Cor among the grease monkeys and scrap dealers, shooting the shit around one of the barrel fires out on the asphalt. It was simple to spot Cor in a crowd, as he was easily a head taller than most, and even after all these years, Gladio would have recognized his uniform anywhere. Where Cor had gotten a Kingsglaive uniform—or _how_ he kept his in such pristine condition—was beyond Gladio, but the sight stirred a sense of pride and awe in him that he hadn’t felt in years.

Gladio’s brain was incapable of stringing one coherent thought together with the next and was powerless to stop his legs as he jogged across the lot straight to Cor. Grinning (probably like an idiot) at the surprise on Cor’s face when he turned to see the source of Gladio’s heavy footfalls, Gladio brought the Marshal into a tight embrace. Cor was still in his arms for a moment, then returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around Gladio’s back and patting the space between his shoulder blades. Cor smelled like smoke from the fire and felt simultaneously as solid and strong as Gladio had always known him to be and small against his chest. No, ‘small’ wasn’t quite the right word… bony was more accurate, Gladio thought, his brain regaining the ability to process words.

After pulling back from the hug Gladio realized just how lean Cor looked nowadays. He was just as tall as he’d always been, but gone was the firm musculature in his chest and biceps, the fullness in his face. He wasn’t getting enough to eat, none of the survivors were, but it went beyond that.

As Gladio studied Cor’s features from across the fire a short while later, the fine, and not so fine, wrinkles on his face, his entirely silver hair, he realized then that the answer to Cor’s change in appearance was simply aging. Traipsing around the country and bashing daemons together certainly kept him in shape, but the lack of a proper diet to nourish and maintain that kind of body had laid waste to the muscles Gladio once stared in awe at. That combined with the natural flow of time had made Cor leaner, weathered even, and finally resembling his age… which had to be around fifty five, Gladio guessed. He looked good for his age, though, Gladio asserted to himself; a benefit to a rough and tumble lifestyle with no chance of retirement.

Cor caught him staring, raised an eyebrow. Cor had this way of looking at him that made Gladio feel like he was that thirteen-year-old again, completely wet behind the ears and in need of being put in his place. It wasn’t a harsh look, per say, just knowing. Like Cor could see right through him with a single glance. There was a twinkle in his eye, though maybe it was just from the fire, and Cor nodded his head towards the camper across the lot, still in the exact same place it was ten years ago.

\---

“I’d ask if you take ice, but I’m afraid we’re out.”

Cor sloshed two fingers of whisky a piece into two mismatched glasses, Gladio watching, leaning against the linoleum countertop.

Gladio and the others had spent a couple nights in the camper ten years ago, when they were still getting their bearings while they waited for repairs on the Regalia to be completed. Inside smelled mustier than he remembered, but the simple furnishings looked the same: a pullout bed, tiny kitchenette and bathroom, a cramped excuse for a closet, and a foldup couch. Gladio could recall those nights spent here, trading off between the bed, couch, and floor, but they felt so distant now, like they had happened to someone else.

He accepted one of the glasses from Cor. “What’re we drinking to?”

Cor raised his glass. “To old friends?”

Gladio clinked his glass to Cor’s. “I can drink to that.”

The whisky burned as it went down, Gladio hissing as he set his now empty glass on the counter. He had a high tolerance for alcohol, but it had been years since he’d had a taste of something this strong, not one to partake in the hooch some took to distilling out of Lestallum.

Cor emptied his glass like it was water, nary a grimace or wince. He picked up the half empty whisky bottle, its label completely scratched off, and poured himself another drink, then offered the bottle to Gladio. He nodded and Cor splashed some into his glass, too.

“This from your private collection or something?” Gladio tilted the glass in his hand, admiring the amber liquid.

“You could say that,” Cor said then downed his glass. “Only comes out for special occasions.”

“I’m flattered you’re that happy to see me,” Gladio replied, grinning over the top of his glass, just taking a small sip.

Cor begrudged him a smile. “Well, let’s just say a miracle calls for a drink.”

“A miracle?”

Cor took a few short steps to the accordion style closet door. “Something told me I should be here to deliver these, and not one day later your ass shows up.” Cor pulled open door to reveal three sets of the same austere black Kingsglaive uniform, the very same Cor was wearing. Gladio had dreamed of the day he’d get his own set, when Noctis ascended as king. Of course, that day had come ten years ago, but the uniform itself was forgotten, given the circumstances. To actually see the garment before him, Gladio had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He set down his half-empty glass on the counter and moved closer to Cor and the uniform.

“That’s for me…?”

“And Ignis. And Prompto.”

“But, how—are they here, too?”

Cor shrugged. “You’re the first to arrive, but I got a feeling they’ll show up, too.”

Gladio was gob smacked by the idea. Sure, he had seen gods, dueled a ghost, and cut down the Accursed only for him to walk it off like it were a paper cut, but this… this was fantastic in a completely different way. It was hopeful. The true king’s retinue all called back to Hammerhead, provided with their proper regalia, it had to mean something. And if Gladio was right, then…

“What about Noct?”

Cor took the largest of the tunics off its hanger, shaking his head ‘no’ as he handed it to Gladio. “No word, but Glaives are monitoring the crystal. That thing so much as sparks and we’ll hear about it.”

Gladio nodded. The Glaives were few in number these days, but those that remained were unquestionably loyal. With this renewed hope, a part of Gladio wanted to commandeer the next caravan to stop in Hammerhead and head straight to Galdin Quay to ensure that he was the first friendly face Noct saw when he emerged… but as he accepted the tunic from Cor, that desire dissipated slightly. He was out of practice being that unselfish Shield, it seemed.

“You just had these laying around somewhere?” Gladio grinned at Cor as he rubbed the thick fabric in his hands.

“Well… it just didn’t seem appropriate, whipping them out after everything all those years ago. Besides,” Cor slapped Gladio’s bicep, but his hand lingered, squeezing his arm firmly, “it would’ve been too big for you, then.”

Gladio couldn’t help the heat creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. “Oh…?”

“You didn’t need the weight of the uniform, Gladio. It would’ve been too heavy for your shoulders, the others, too. But I think the time’s come.”

Much to Gladio’s disappointment, Cor retracted his hand, but the warmth from his praise stuck. Grinning, Gladio held out the tunic before him, admiring the silver buttons and detailing. It was a completely symbolic gesture, absolutely. Still, Gladio couldn’t form into words how much it meant to him to finally look the part of a true Shield.

“Can I, ah, try it on?” His eyes flicked to Cor for permission.

“’Course. What’re you asking me for?”

Gladio cleared his throat and shifted his gaze back to the tunic in front of him. He was a grown ass man and he’d known Cor literally all his life. So why the hell was he suddenly so nervous?

Gladio carefully set the tunic down on the foldout bed behind him and unzipped his jacket. He peeled it off, revealing a black tank top underneath, and tossed it onto the bed without an ounce of care. Then, almost reverently, Gladio took the Kingsglaive tunic into his hands and slipped it on one arm at a time, the intricate buttons and fastenings already undone.

As Gladio slipped the tunic up and onto his shoulders he realized Cor was watching, arms crossed in front of his chest, his face the picture of pride. Just when Gladio thought all of that vulnerability inside had long been kicked out of him, something inside of him shattered. As much as Gladio loved Cor—actually, truly _loved_ him as a friend and mentor and—the person he really wanted to be here, witnessing this moment, was Clarus.

Cor seemed to sense this and took a step closer, his fingers setting to fastening the silver buttons up the front of the tunic. “Your father would be proud,” he said, eyes turned down to his work.

Gladio didn’t trust himself to say anything just then as he could feel the tightness in his throat.

Cor made quick work of the buttons up Gladio’s chest, but left the few at his neck undone. Gladio expected Cor to pull back then, maybe give him another encouraging slap on the arm if his was lucky, but it seemed this day wasn’t done with surprising him.

Cor took Gladio’s jaw into his right hand and angled his head to look him in the eye. Gladio stood stock-still, he’d never been so close in such an intimate way to Cor in all his thirty-odd years. Cor forced him to meet his gaze, which, despite the softness of his crow’s feet, was firm. “There’s no shame in tears, Gladiolus. Wear this uniform with pride. You’ve earned it.”

Gladio felt something catch in his throat, but before he could say anything in return or crumple before the living legend, Cor let go of his jaw and sidled past him to the camper door. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be outside.”

Gladio was vaguely aware of the camper door swinging open and shut, of the slight shift in the floor as Cor stepped down to the asphalt, but it was all muted with the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. Gladio lowered himself down on the edge of the foldout bed, strangely calm, as if in shock. He buried his face in his rough and chapped hands. The tears came immediately after.

Gladio couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, and he had years of mourning left undone. Cuts and gashes a decade old were torn open and he sobbed like a wounded animal for his father, for Noct and Lunafreya, for Ignis, and even for himself. His shoulders quaked and he ground his face deeper into his hands, as if to try and stop the flow of tears but to no avail. He sniffed loudly to try and pull back the trail of snot dripping down from his nose and over his lips, but again to no avail. Gladio mashed his palms against his mouth to muffle a scream, only no matter how wide he opened his mouth, there was only anguished silence.

Before long he was left gasping, the last hot tears lazily bubbling over and clinging to the agitated skin around his eyes. He sucked in a number of deep breaths through his mouth to even out his breathing, but they caught here and there in his throat.

A short while later Gladio was simply out of tears to cry and sniffed loudly. He was left somewhat dazed from the fit, mind cloudy but lighter than it was before, free of the ever-present burdens Gladio hadn’t even been aware he was carrying. He rubbed his eyes and hissed; they were already starting to burn.

He sat there a little while longer as the fog lifted from his mind, just watching the motes of dust drift around him, the dulled sounds from the camp outside filtering in through the thin walls. Doubt and anger were replaced with focus, and more importantly, hope. Gladio gave his cheeks a good slap with both hands, the sharp sound filling the camper, bringing himself back to full attention.

Things were undeniably in motion now. Things long left undone were now back on the path to completion.

Gladio’s fingers set to unbuttoning his new tunic. His hands were clumsy and slow in comparison to Cor’s, and the fact that they were shaking didn’t help things either, but he managed to undo the front and carefully slid the garment off his arms. After getting to his feet he placed the tunic back on its hanger in the closet. Gladio smoothed down the fabric then briefly touched the other two tunics hanging up next to his. He had faith Ignis and Prompto would be coming to claim them soon; it was only a matter of time.

Gladio closed the closet door then swiped his discarded jacket from the bed and slipped it back on. He needed Cor to get him up to speed. After ten years of _nothing_ , to be honest it felt a bit overwhelming; all of these moving parts kicking into gear all at once, but Gladio was ready to meet his destiny.

Gladio downed the rest of his forgotten whisky on the counter, then pushed open the camper door just as a set of icy blue headlights were shining into the garage. A few Hunters quickly closed the heavy metal gate behind the truck as it pulled in and came to a stop, tires crunching the loose gravel. Gladio caught sight of Cor moving to meet whoever had just arrived and his heart picked up.

This was really happening.

\---

They were all sitting outside the camper a few hours later. Each was nursing some form of hooch or kvass, all in mismatched cups and mugs. Ignis had thrown some food together, borrowing the kitchen in Takka’s Pit Stop for the bulk of the prep, and Prompto and Gladio had helped roast the skewers over an open fire outside.

The surreal nature of it all kept them smiling and laughing as the food was prepared, the conversation giving way to a companionable silence as they sat around the plastic picnic table and dug in. Cor was always welcome company, despite not being an ‘official’ member of the true king’s retinue. He sat between Gladio and Ignis and gave his compliments to the chef not once but multiple times during the course of the meal.

Ignis and Prompto had been just as bowled over at the reveal of the uniforms as Gladio was. Gladio had watched Cor bequeath the tunics to them from the camper door, and swore he caught the glimmer of tears in Prompto’s eyes. He watched Ignis carefully run his hands over every inch of the fabric and wondered if Ignis remembered what the uniform looked like. His face was like stone, not betraying for an instant exactly what Ignis was thinking or feeling as his fingers traced the detailing, but Gladio thought he heard Ignis’ voice catch slightly in his throat as he thanked Cor for keeping the uniforms safe all this time.

Though Gladio was still jittery with energy, invigorated by the sudden turn of events, Ignis excused himself from the group a short while later to sleep. Prompto followed suit an hour or so later, and Gladio let out a snort of a laugh, knowing he’d be on the floor in the camper when he eventually turned in for the night. He had a feeling things had turned out that way before, all those years ago. Being the tallest of the crew, the floor really _was_ the best place to be able to stretch out, but just thinking about it now dredged up some psychosomatic back pain Gladio had long forgotten about.

As the camper door swung shut, it was just Gladio and Cor seated at the plastic picnic table. They hadn’t been alone since Ignis and Prompto’s sudden arrival, caught up in all the goings-on. Gladio smoothed his palms down over his thighs, finding them damp and clammy and shifted in his seat. He had been so full of wonder hours ago, the incredibleness of the situation numbing him to the reality behind it. With the retinue back together, the true king returned—that only meant one thing: they were all on a collision course with mortal danger. It wasn’t as if Gladio was out of harm’s way now, he came face to face with life-threatening situations on a near daily basis. But going off on a hunt or escorting some refugees was different from preparing for the ultimate battle between good and evil.

Gladio couldn’t entirely put this new feeling of anxiety into words. Physically, Gladio was just as prepared to defend Noct with his life as he was a decade ago, if not more so, the harshness of the Starscourge forcing him to refine his technique. Ignis and Prompto, too, they were ready for this and Gladio knew he could depend on them to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and see the dawn returned. They were still in the prime of their lives, the rashness of youth scoured off of them, now full of focus and determination to set things right.

But as Gladio glanced across the table, his eyes finding Cor’s mottled hands on his cup, he was reminded by the fact that not everyone had managed to scrape by through the years of darkness and come out stronger. Gladio didn’t doubt for an instant that Cor wouldn’t join the battle, that he wouldn’t want to give everything he had in service to the King… but there were bound to be causalities. It wasn’t as if Cor was a doddering old man now, but still, hunched over in his chair, with the deep shadows cast across his wrinkled skin, Gladio couldn’t deny the Marshal was no longer in peak condition.

Should he suggest Cor stayed behind? Wait it out? No, Gladio could never do something like that—and it wasn’t as if Cor couldn’t handle himself in a fight anymore. The last thing Gladio would ever want was to embarrass him, to imply that he was no longer useful. But the thought of Cor getting hurt, of doing something stupidly heroic and getting himself killed, now that they were so close to the end of things, was driving Gladio up the wall.

“What’s on your mind?” Cor asked suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet garage and startling Gladio. “You’re fidgeting.”

“I, ah…” Gladio crossed his arms. How best to say he was dealing with a very sudden existential crisis? By not saying anything at all, he figured. “It’s nothing.”

“You can tell me.”

Gladio let out a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s just… so much so fast. It’s a lot to process. I guess.”

“I get that. I didn’t honestly expect you guys to show up here, so I’m in just as much shock as you are.”

Gladio allowed himself a small smile at that. Cor had always been this static fixture in his life, this unwavering pillar of responsibility and control. But now, Gladio saw that Cor’s hand was trembling slightly on his cup, the low lighting cast deep shadows across the wrinkles on his face. Cor was just as afraid as he was. Gladio inhaled deeply.

“About the fight—”

“I’ve been thinking.” The rumble of Cor’s voice cut Gladio off mid-sentence. Gladio straightened his spine slightly, recognizing the serious tone of Cor’s voice. “Once Noctis arrives, we’ll need to strategize. I’ve already gotten into contact with the remaining Glaives, but they’ll need to be brought up to speed on the game plan. Naturally, I’m sure Noctis will want to lead the charge, with you three at his side, of course.”

Gladio nodded. “That’s as much as I expected.”

“We’re not sending you into Insomnia alone. You’ll have back up—the Glaives, of course, and me.”

Gladio cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to second guess your judgment, but is that really necessary?”

“I’m going with you guys.”

“Marshal—”

“An old man can’t sit idly by and send good, young men off to die. This one won’t, at least.”

“You aren’t. We need you to coordinate away from the front lines, Marshal, that’s a vital role.”

Cor let out a bitter laugh. “I’m too old to be prideful about it, but I am. I won’t hide behind others and let them die in my stead.”

“Why can’t you just rest on your laurels, Cor?” Gladio’s eyes flitted to Cor’s enlarged knuckles, how the chapped skin grew taut as his grip tightened around his cup.

Cor was silent for a time, as if choosing his next words carefully.

“Y’know,” he began slowly, “‘The Immortal’ is a funny title to give to someone who’s outlived two kings he was sworn to protect.” Cor idly played with his empty glass on the plastic table. “I may not be Noctis’ sworn Shield, but I don’t intend on letting him be the third King I’ve failed.”

Gladio opened his mouth to refute Cor’s comment, but closed it. He had never interpreted the moniker in any other way, aside from Cor’s legendary battle with the Blademaster. He had never questioned if it had an ulterior meaning. Still, Gladio shook his head ‘no.’

“You didn’t fail them, Marshal. Mors, Regis. You did everything you could’ve.”

Cor’s lips drew together in a small, pained smile. Gladio winced. He knew there were no words he could say that would magically do away with decades worth of regret and pain, but gods did he wish there were.

“Thank you, Gladio.” Cor crossed his arms. “But I need to do this. You, if anyone, should understand.”

“I do—I understand painfully well enough what you’re feeling, what my dad must have felt, but you can’t let that get to you. You don’t have to die to set things right.”

“Who said anything about me dying?”

“Well from the way you’re talking, it sure as hell sounds like you don’t intend on walking away from the fight.”

Cor inhaled sharply. “I’m not saying there’s honor in death.” Cor paused, his lips moving wordlessly as if trying to parse out his thoughts. “But there certainly isn’t any in failing to uphold a sworn oath.” He looked to Gladio, his jaw tight. “Maybe I’m an old fool for wanting a share of the glory, and maybe I don’t deserve another chance…”

He shook his head ‘no.’ “But I can’t walk away from this. And don’t think it’s because I don’t trust you to see things through alone and protect Noct—I trained you better than that, Gladio.” Cor’s voice was flat but his mouth tugged up slightly at the side, belying his somber tone. “I’m not made of glass. I’m not asking for your blessing or your permission.”

It wasn’t his place to tell Cor what he could and could not do, and he knew this… but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the last thing he wanted was Cor on the front lines and in the direct line of danger. But by the same token, Gladio couldn’t bring himself to simply say, _I don’t want you to get yourself killed_. _I don’t want to lose anyone else_. _I don’t know what I’d do if you died._

So Gladio sighed through his nose and stood, the feet of his plastic chair scraping against the asphalt. He walked around the table to where Cor was seated, and Cor stood automatically. Gladio extended his arms and wrapped them around Cor, bringing him into a crushing hug. Cor breathed in sharply at the display of affection, his arms tense, caught between embracing Gladio back and hanging at his sides.

“We’re gonna get smashed when this is done,” Gladio said, his cheek pressed against the side of Cor’s head. “You and me. We’re going to get stupid drunk and laugh about this.”

Cor laughed into Gladio’s shoulder as he brought his arms around Gladio to return the gesture. “Sounds like a plan.”

Gladio squeezed Cor tight. His heart was racing, threatening to jump out from his ribcage, it felt, if not for the pressure exerted onto him from Cor’s chest. His face suddenly felt warm and Gladio couldn’t help but clear his throat as the words _I want to keep you safe_ drifted through his head. He suddenly was hyper aware of Cor’s every subtle movement, the feeling of Cor’s breath on his neck, his warmth pressed against him. All of this combined stirred something in Gladio’s chest and his hold tightened.

But as much as Gladio wanted to hold Cor a bit longer, to ride the high that his scent and close proximity were giving him, it ended all too soon.

Cor pulled back from the embrace, forcing Gladio to slacken his hold. “Thank you, Gladio,” he said, holding Gladio’s gaze.

Gladio cleared his throat and took a step backwards, restoring the space between them, then nodded. _I don’t want you out on the front lines, but—_ “You’ll always be an asset on the battle field.”

Gladio knew that if their roles were swapped, the last thing he would ever want was for his former student and friend to question his capacity to fight. To make him stay behind. Even though that was what Gladio wanted, he knew he could never bring himself to say it, to demand it, from Cor.

Cor cracked a grin and slapped Gladio’s bicep affectionately. “Standing shoulder to shoulder. Almost like old times.”

Gladio returned a small smile. “Right.” He didn’t trust himself to say anything more, his tongue heavy and ungainly in his mouth.

“Focus on conserving your strength now. It’s only a matter of time before things really kick into gear, so savor the quiet while you can. Alright?”

Gladio nodded. The conversation trickled out from there, Gladio not having the heart to divulge his true feelings to Cor. He excused himself a short time later, but not without urging Cor to pack it in for the night, too—there was plenty of room in the camper.

But Cor nodded ‘no,’ seated back in his plastic chair. “Think I’ll stay up a bit longer. Got a lot on my mind.”

“You need sleep just as much as we do, Marshal,” Gladio said from the camper door, his hand on the handle.

Cor’s lips drew together in a small, pained smile. “Right. I’ll be there in a bit.”

\---

Gladio had pulled a spare pillow from Prompto’s sleepy grasp and settled down in the space between his friends on the floor. Gladio closed his eyes and tried to find sleep, but with everything that had happened, all the day’s revelations and discoveries floating around in his head, his chest swimming with conflicting emotions, he found the task impossible.

“Gladio.”

Ignis’ voice, raspy with sleep, sounded from the dark and Gladio stopped his unconscious fidgeting.

“Did I wake you? Sorry.”

Gladio heard Ignis stir in the bed to his left and looked up to see him looking down at him through an unseeing eye.

“No, I was awake.” Ignis reached out for Gladio in the dark, and Gladio extended his hand. Their fingertips brushed past each other, and now that Ignis knew of Gladio’s location, he followed the line of Gladio’s arm and grasped Gladio’s shoulder, squeezing it tight. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with the Marshal.”

“Ah…”

Ignis squeezed his shoulder tighter. “You won’t be able to stop him, so just—”

“Ignis—”

“So just trust in him,” Ignis barreled on. “Even if it hurts.”

Gladio knew Ignis was speaking from experience, the sincerity in his voice overwhelmingly strong, but he couldn’t exactly place the context. Mind clouded by drowsiness, Gladio didn’t have the mental fortitude to press the issue.

“Okay.”

Ignis retracted his hand and settled back into the bed. “Trust, and pray for the best. That’s my recommendation,” he said, as if to reassure himself instead of Gladio.

Gladio closed his eyes. He could still taste the alcohol on his tongue and envisioned a time not far from here and now in the future—the world righted, him and Cor sharing a table at some dive bar. They’d trade stories, reminisce about the good old days, plan for the future. He could picture himself sliding his hand across the table and placing it over Cor’s, not caring for an instant how rough or imperfect his skin was. He could even feel Cor turning his hand over under his, his fingers moving in-between his own.

Though the more Gladio tried to focus on this image, to pour his remaining energy into fleshing it out in his mind, the hazier it seemed to become, fraying at the edges. Yet as he finally drifted off to sleep, Gladio clung to that image of the two of them happy and alive—the warmth of the imagined dive bar lulling him into a deep, deep sleep.


End file.
